Celestina
by Phantomphaeton
Summary: It's the slow knife—the knife that takes its time. The knife that waits years without forgetting, then slips quietly between the bones—that's the knife that cuts the deepest.
1. Chapter 1

They say Lady Adria wept for joy when she learned she would be queen. They say that Lady Dionne was so overjoyed she could not eat for three days. They say that Lady Marina rode out to the Temple of the Gods and remained there for an entire week thanking them.

Sansa wept when she learned she would be queen. She wept bitter, wretched tears. She did not eat for days, but because she was so disgusted. She rode out to the Temple of the Gods to pray for deliverance, to pray for mercy, to pray for freedom from the evil curse that was thrust upon her—the curse of Joffrey Baratheon.

How could so much evil, so much malevolence, so much wickedness and malice and cruelty and immorality exist in a boy of only seventeen? She asked herself that every time she saw his face. She asked the Gods when she went to pray. She asked her reflection in the mirror. But she asked no one else.

When she first bled, no one paid it any mind. The Queen certainly didn't say much besides the expected 'becoming a woman' speech. Sansa would never say it aloud, but sometimes the Queen looked at her and seemed to be seeing more than just the blood of the enemy, but rather exactly what Sansa really was. A girl in a strange place surrounded by hate and fear and enemies. And sometimes the Queen seemed to be not so much of a villain as she was a human. And then Sansa would squash the thought and think of everything she's seen, everything she's been through, and it would be enough. It would be enough to almost break her down and make her eyes well with unshed tears and she'd turn her head away if anyone was around and bury her face into a pillow if no one was.

The Queen said nothing after a while. Tywin never even spoke of it. Her blooming red flower became of minor importance and for a little while, Sansa began to push it into the back of her mind, to forget and try to inhale without tearing up, to go to sleep without the churning in her stomach. After a while, she'd wake up in the middle of the night and fear wasn't the first thing she'd feel. She wouldn't soak her pillow with tears and she wouldn't open the window and bite back a scream. She began to breathe.

And then came the news.

"Her red flower only blooms for five days a month," The Queen had explained to Tywin. "So we'd ideally have a wedding immediately after this next full moon."

And Tywin nodded like she was discussing the next rainstorm.

"It is done," he had said.

That night, Sansa had ridden out to the Temple of the Gods, and it was only when the middle aged Sister Savarine had gone away that Sansa fell to her knees before the statues and wept and wept and wept.

"On my honor as a Stark," she had cried. "I swear to give anything, to pay any price, to endure every hardship that will follow in silence," she looked up to the sky through the open hole in the ceiling. On the right days, the moonlight would shine through just so and it would be a stunning view, but that night it was nothing but frightening. "I have never asked for anything before," she whispered. "But tonight I ask only that you liberate me. If not tonight, then someday soon. I beg that you do not abandon me to this fate."

Sansa could not sleep for sadness and did not leave the Temple that night. She stayed where she had fallen, on her knees, wiping her tears and praying, pausing only as a fresh peal of sobs overcame her and not ceasing until the doors were thrust open and Sandor walked inside. She looked up at him. Behind him, she could see that the sun had risen fully and it could have been close to afternoon.

"The Queen Regent requests your presence in her drawing room," he said. He paused, taking in her tear stained cheeks, her flushed face, her blank expression. "Whenever you're ready," he added quietly.

She wiped at her eyes and got to her feet.

The Queen was holding up two different fabrics to the light by the window when Sansa walked in. A merchant stood a few feet behind her, holding open an entire catalogue of cloth.

"Lady Sansa," the Queen greeted her. "Come closer to the light. Hold out your arm."

Sansa held out her arm and the Queen pushed back her sleeve to hold the first fabric against her skin.

"You've gotten awfully pale," the Queen said. "At first it was attractive but now it is rather sickly. You and I will walk through the gardens today."

"Yes, your Grace," Sansa said automatically.

"Sandor tells me you spent the night at the temple."

"I have, your Grace."

"What did you pray for?"

"That I might give the King a healthy son."

"How sweet of you," the queen said, reaching forward and pinching a bloodless cheek delicately. "I have no doubt that Joffrey will be very pleased with you. I think this one flatters you, doesn't it? For the engagement ball?"

"It does," Sansa said, giving the fabric a cursory glance. It was golden and sparkly and pretty, but she hated it anyways.

"I wore something that looked a bit like this on my own wedding," the queen said, rubbing her thumb over the fabric slowly, as though playing with the memory.

"You must have been a vision," said Sansa.

She toyed with the notion that perhaps the reason her marriage to Robert Baratheon had gone so terribly was because he could see how ugly she was on the inside.

"It was the very beginning of the long summer," the queen said. "The day was breezy and bright. Not a cloud in the sky. Everything was golden and shining and everyone was happy. And he was waiting for me there at the end of the aisle with his black hair and his cloak." The queen sighed at the recollection.

"It must have been like a dream," Sansa said.

The queen looked wistful. "I was thinking of this one for the wedding," the queen said, holding up the other fabric. It was gray and silky. It felt like water and swished like it, too.

"It's lovely," Sansa said.

"Mmhm," the queen fingered the second fabric carefully, for a few moments seeming like she wasn't really looking at them. "You will dine with us tonight. To celebrate."

"Yes, your Grace."

Alone in her rooms, Sansa stared at herself in the mirror. While they walked through the gardens, Sansa couldn't help noticing the way that the queen's arms were held so close to herself. She held her arms together with this abominable pride and coldness. Her sleeves surely contributed to that. Sansa's own gowns had similar sleeves. How similarly they seemed to carry themselves with these heavy sleeves. Sansa took a few steps before the mirror. She walked like the queen. Disgusting.

So it was decided. Her sleeves would have to go. She'd never even dreamed of wearing gowns without sleeves before, but it was either the sleeves or her resemblance to Cersei Lannister. She reached for the letter opener on the writing desk by the window and cut at the threads binding the fabric, tearing off the left sleeve. She compared it to the right. Already she felt different. She almost smiled to herself at this as a knock on the door interrupted her.

"Enter," she said, cutting at the threads for the other sleeve.

The door opened. She paused.

"What have I interrupted?" asked Joffrey.

Sansa's heart and stomach and lungs and perhaps even her liver dropped down to somewhere near her hips. She briefly wondered if he could hear them land.

"Nothing, Your Grace," she said, sinking into a curtsey. "I'm simply…considering alterations."

"Get dressed," Joffrey said. "I've come to collect you for dinner in the garden."

"Yes, Your Grace," she said, hurrying behind the dressing screen. She heard the door shut and leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply.

Dinner was always her least favorite meal, and this sentiment was encouraged whenever she found herself dining with _them._

"I want to see Dornish fire-eaters at the wedding," Tommen said.

Sansa busied herself with pushing her food around on her plate, because she most definitely was never going to eat it. They needed her alive, so the food was obviously not poisoned, but she knew that if she took a bite, she'd be sick anyways.

"Wouldn't that be a spectacle?" Cersei smiled at him.

"Only if they catch fire," Joffrey said.

Had the Seven forsaken her?

"What do you think, Sansa?" asked Cersei.

"It would be an amusing sight, Your Grace," Sansa replied. "I've only ever heard stories of the fire-eaters."

"I wonder if they could actually swallow the fire?" Joffrey sipped at his wine. Sansa didn't even have it in her to cringe at the thought. "I'd bring them all the way here just to see if they could. Now wouldn't _that_ be a sight to see, Lady Sansa?"

"It would certainly make our wedding unforgettable," she says.

Though, as the days dragged on and the wedding drew near, Sansa wondered if perhaps men swallowing fire would be overlooked by Joffrey if something more disturbing occurred that night—say the bride hanging herself from the battlements or throwing herself off the cliff or drinking poison.

It was because she so desperately wanted it to go by slowly that time seemed to go by with the speed of stormy wind. It was the Gods' way of mocking her. The more eager you are for something, the longer you have to wait for it. And this wedding was _not_ something Sansa was eager for.

She did not sleep the night before the wedding. She did not eat or drink. She sat in her bathtub and watched the bubbles glide across the surface of the water and she wondered if she could conceivably drown in water this shallow.

She tried. Twice. It didn't work, and she was both relieved and devastated at the same time.

On the morning of the End, the maids walked inside to find her huddled in the corner, still as death and wrapped in a soaking cloth. The maester arrived and once it was determined that she had no fever, she was dressed in a gown of fine gray. Her hair was braided out of her face and swept behind her, touching the middle of her back. Perhaps she could have strangled herself with a braid. Too complicated.

The Sept was packed with familiar, pitying faces. Perhaps she could have fed herself to a pack of starving dogs. Too violent.

The Septon spoke slowly and bided his time, delivering eloquent blessing after eloquent blessing. Perhaps she could have ventured out into a thunderstorm wearing armor on the off chance that she would get struck by lightning. Too unlikely.

A cloak was placed over her shoulders.

Perhaps she could have suffocated under the weight of twelve feather bed spreads. Too convoluted.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine from this day until the end of my days."

Perhaps she could have slit her wrists with the letter opener. Too messy.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," said the smug, proud voice of the inbred king moments before he pressed his mouth to hers.

Perhaps she could have swallowed a glass full of Tears of Lys. Too suspicious.

Music played and people danced and people ate and people laughed and no one noticed the bride sitting silently by the balcony, staring out at the rocks beneath them.

Perhaps she could jump. Too frightening.

The king was above a bedding ceremony. But not above making a spectacle of carrying her off to the chambers himself.

Perhaps nightshade would have done better than the tears of Lys. It was popular as a sleeping draught, but in high enough doses that which could heal could just as easily kill. Too risky. But worth considering.

They lay together in the early hours of the morning. The sky slowly brightened and the sunlight illuminated the bloodstain on the sheets and she pulled a robe over her bare skin, turning for a moment and watching him sleep. His arm was still coiled around her waist. She raised it off of her body gently, laying it down on the pillow. He seemed to stir for a moment. She froze. His eyes fluttered open. He looked at her for only a second, eyes travelling over her figure before he raised his arm yet again. She crawled back under his arm obediently, letting him hold her close to himself again.

Perhaps she didn't have to die. Perhaps _he_ could instead.

And just like that, she had found her purpose.


	2. Chapter 2

"You haven't touched your plate," Joffrey observed.

"Butterflies," Sansa replied. "I'm in ecstasy. Why eat? Happiness can sustain me."

"Well, then—to happiness!" Joffrey raised his goblet.

She raised her own to meet his. "To our long, happy lives together," she said, watching him drain every drop.

He smacked his lips together. His brow furrowed. He raised his hand to his chest. He began to cough. She stood up and moved backwards, towards the wall, watching the inbred king fall to the ground.

"S—San—Sansa," he choked, sputtering up wine and blood, staining the floor. "He—_help_."

She sat back down and took a bite of her chicken as his breaths stilled.

Too dangerous. How would she get out of the city before the bells went off alerting everyone? Nothing would keep her safe from Cersei. So no poison then.

A crow took to following her around the morning after the wedding. She couldn't understand it. No one else could explain it. No one else could stop it, either. And so no one did. And so Sansa Stark drifted off into the background, disappeared into the shadows in the corners of King's Landing.

Nightshade was her friend. In the nights she could not sleep for disgust and anger had consumed her very being, keeping her awake, listening to his breathing beside her.

She could see it sometimes. Death. It lingered in the corners, whispering under its breath, calling to her. No more heartache. No more Joffrey. No more King's Landing or royalty or war or misery.

No vengeance.

"What's that? A crow? What's a crow doing in the Crownlands? It's awfully far from home," Lord Varys said one day.

"I haven't the slightest clue," Sansa said. "It has taken to following me. Is it not a bird of ill omen? Perhaps some great misfortune may soon befall me."

"Not the crow, my queen," said Lord Varys. "I understand it is the _raven_ that bodes ill."

"And what does the crow bode?"

"Death."

What a positively delectable concept. Whose death does it foresee?

"I wonder how it will come for me," she murmurs to herself.

"But the crow does not always predict the death of the one it follows, my queen," Lord Varys said. "In the midst of death, there is—after all—_life_."

"In the midst of death, there are those wishing they had also died," Sansa said. "I have found that death—once near—is never inefficient."

"I haven't always found that to be true, my queen," Lord Varys said.

Lord Varys had been right, in the end. The crow had been a sign of life in the midst of death. In the midst of the almighty fall of the great House Stark, in the midst of the end of the War of Five Kings, in the midst of the height of the never-ending cruelties of the Inbred King, the little wolf in the south carried life.

The people laughed and drank and cheered and sang. The King grinned and carried himself like a God in man's skin. And the little wolf in the south pressed her hand to her flat belly and closed her eyes.

The Gods had seen fit to grant the Inbred King another nine months, for his wolf queen carried life.

"You will go to the Cottage until our son is born," Joffrey told her. "If any harm should befall this child as he grows within you, it will be _you_ that will suffer for it."

"So says the King," she said, sinking into a curtsey.

The Cottage was a great rustic manor flung deep within the Kingswood. The air was crisp and clean, the place was quiet and calm. The near peace she almost felt reminded her of better days, of a land where the snow fell and where the furs were thick and warm and where the sun shined but little warmth came with it. But she had no tears left to shed for that great and distant land, and so it drifted off into memory.

The midwives arrived as the days flew by. The chambers were prepared. The curtains drawn and the guards doubled and the medicines brought in and the Septon ready and waiting to bless the head of a newborn boy.

The crow left her sight the morning of her first aches. She would not see it again for many years.

A day and a half. Thirty six hours. Thirty six hours of sweat and toil and water and strangers and prayer tokens and blessings and finally—peace.

When she awakened from her sleep two days later, a golden haired king stood by the window, cradling his newborn child in his arms.

"Look at the world, little one," he whispered sweetly. "Look at your world. It's all yours now. All of it. And if you see some new part of it that you should want, you need only say the word and your father will win it for you. And he will cut down anyone who should try to stop him."

It was the gentle touch, the soft voice he spoke with, the little lullaby he hummed as he rocked the quiet infant back and forth in his arms that roused her mind. She sat upright. He sat beside her and placed the child in her arms. She had failed the king. This was not a son. The little face was still, asleep, sound and soft and silent. A pair of eyelids fluttered open, and Ned Stark's eyes looked out at her.

"Celestina," Joffrey whispered, pulling back the pale pink blanket. "Princess Celestina."

And his face softened as his lips shaped the name, and his smile was sweet as he touched a finger to her cheek, and with only that to calm her, she knew.

It would be the slow knife—the knife that could take it's time. The knife that would wait for years without forgetting before it slipped quietly between the bones—that would be the knife that would cut the deepest. Celestina would be the knife.

And then the wolves were two.


	3. Chapter 3

Celestina stiffened when held by her nurse. She stiffened when held by her grandmother. She stiffened when held by her uncle. The only person she did not stiffen for, apparently, was her mother.

Her father came weekly to the Cottage to see her. He had no words for her mother, none but a greeting and a farewell. But for Celestina, he had words. Words and songs and adoring stares and gold lined blankets and bells of silver and promises of the world.

Celestina would be the knife, but the knife had to be forged early. It had to sit, ready and waiting, resolute and still and cold as steel. It had to be positioned there, beside the ribs, where it would be prepared to plunge at the right moment.

And so, when her father had bid her goodnight and disappeared into his chambers, she would move to the crib where her little wolf lay waiting and whisper in her ear, just as her father had done only moments before.

"You will be the Knife," she told her. "You will be the Knife of Winter. Your cut will be sharp, your grip will be firm, your blow will be absolute. You, my little wolf, are a Stark."

And the little wolf opened her eyes at these words, and she moved her arms and legs and welcomed the voice in her ear. The little wolf understood.

.`.

The little wolf sat up by herself at four months old. A tuft of brilliant red hair grew fast and shiny. Ned Stark's eyes glowed in the dark. Her father would sit with her on his lap as he spoke to friend and foe alike. She played with his rings and his fine sleeves. But she never made a sound.

"She's an awfully quiet thing, isn't she?" Cersei asked. "Why so quiet, little lioness?"

"She's a thoughtful little princess," Joffrey said back, looking down at his little cherub and kissing her hand. "If she's silent, it's because she's thinking of how to win you over."

And the little wolf took her cue to give a tiny smile.

.`.

The little wolf said 'mama' at a year and a half. King's Landing celebrated with festivals and feasts for all and tournaments. Celestina sat on her mother's lap, watching jesters and jousts and duels.

"Where is my fool?" asked the Inbred King.

"There he is!" called a guard.

"You're late!" Joffrey called to him.

"A thousand pardons, Your Grace," the fool sinks into a bow. "I was with wine, more than I could handle."

"Well, give him some more, then!" Joffrey called, clapping his hand. And the guards took the fool and poured the wine down his throat in a way that looked oh so familiar.

Cersei looked away. Jaime rolled his eyes. Tywin glared on in quiet disdain. The court was unsettled but no more inclined to lift a finger than a mouse. And so the wolf emerged from the crowd, weary but determined, to plant the first seeds.

"My king," she whispered quietly into his ear. "Your daughter is watching you."

And Joffrey looked back at the stands, where Ned Stark's eyes watched him unblinking.

"Stop," he said at last, waving his hand to the guards. "He may keep his life."

And the Inbred King hurried back to the stands and gathered his little cherub to his chest.

"Cut him loose," Sansa said to the guards.

"But…my queen—"

She turned and growled. They cowered and dropped the arms of the drunk and tardy fool. She turned back to the stands, and all of King's Landing watched as the queen took her husband's outstretched hand and the family left the courtyard.

.`.

The little wolf turned four in a flurry of dancing and music. Her father brought her gowns and sashes and jewels and tiaras and harps and no one had seen a merrier night.

It was not until the city had fallen asleep—when the little wolf lay in bed—that her mother slipped into the room to give her a gift.

"There you are, little one," she whispered as she handed her the silver direwolf pendant.

"A wolf, Mama?"

"My own wolf. I named her Lady. The first thing your father took from me."

"Was she bad?"

"She was good."

"Then why did he take her?"

"Because he is a monster."

"Will he be punished?"

"One day he will," Sansa says, stroking Celestina's hair. "One day he will stand before the Gods and he will answer for everything that he has done to your mama."

"But no one will punish him now?"

"Not right now, no."

"Why not?"

"Because he is a king. He thinks that means that no one can."

"But someone can?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Us."

"Us, Mama?"

"Us, Celestina."

"How?"

"With patience. All good things to those who wait."

"Is that what wolves do? They wait?"

"Let me tell you something about wolves, child," Sansa said, gathering the princess onto her lap and holding her close. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies—but the pack survives. We—you and I—we are a pack. The last of House Stark. And I will let you in on a little secret that your grandmother Cersei never taught your father: winter is coming."

And the little wolf is tucked into bed, and the gift is hidden away, and as Sansa leaves the room, she hears the quiet whisper in repetition.

"_When the snows fall and the white winds blow,_" whispers the little princess. "_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._"

The queen smiles as she closes the door.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun stopped warming her skin after a while. Sansa would not have it any other way. After so long in the royal city, the sunlight was nothing but blinding.

The little princess walked beside her, never far from sight. She counted her steps as her uncle Rickon once used to in a far and distant memory. She ran swiftly as her aunt Arya did long ago. She stayed up once a month to stare long and hard and the full, pale moon.

"_When the snows fall and the white winds blow_," she would often whisper to herself. "_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives_."

"Tell me princess," said Jaime to her one afternoon. "Wherever did you hear those words?"

"A travelling merchant," the princess answered. "The one who sold me this beautiful sash." A conditioned response, practiced daily by the window.

And her great uncle would nod, but he'd never believe her. She didn't need him to. She didn't need anyone to.

`.`

At six years old, a band of minstrels arrived in King's Landing, bringing with them songs and cheer and the promise of renewed sweetness and laughter. But Joffrey's little princess was above having a public performance.

"I'll not hear of it," he said. "My princess will have them compose her a lullaby. They will sing her to sleep every night they should remain here."

And so the minstrels did as they were bid.

"What shall we sing to you, princess?" they asked her as she lay in bed. She looked to her mother.

"Sing to us of the land of snows," she said at last. "Sing to us of the wolves."

And so the minstrels sang, night by passing night. And night by passing night, the princess dreamt of lands covered with snow, where the cold, unforgiving wind could sing her to sleep. Where the wolves lurked in the shadows, waiting to strike. Two wolves sat waiting in the den of lions, counting the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds.

But the minstrels knew not at the time, and neither did the king, nor his precious little princess, that the minstrels sang to _three_ wolves that night. But the Stark queen knew, for in the recent weeks, her crow had returned.

`.`

The young prince was born under the new moon, a sky black and cruel and windy. He was soft and sweet and silent, with Arya's hair and Catelyn's smile.

"Open your eyes, little one," Sansa whispered in the night.

Ned Stark's eyes looked back at her.

And then the wolves were three.

`.`

The prince said 'mama' at one year and a month. The inbred king laughed and danced and spun his little angels around, listening to the sweet sounds of their giggles. Sansa watched silently as he told them tales of lions and stags and great kings like himself. She watched her children fall asleep, wake up, look around, play with their clothing as their father spoke.

"Their minds are always in the clouds," he told her as they tucked into their own bed that night.

"They're children, my dear," she said in response.

The sheer memory of winter had hardened her face against the touch of his lips as he kissed her goodnight. The pain of solitude had strengthened her body against the brush of his skin as he held her close in his sleep. The promise of the future kept her awake until he had drifted off, and she went silently back to the chambers where the little prince and princess slept.

There, she told them tales of wolves and snows and a great king with a crown of red curls and a promise he couldn't keep. She told them tales of the great young wolf, a true king, and a family torn apart. She told them tales of a castle on the river, of the woman who once lived there with the red in her hair and the hope in her heart.

They did not fall asleep. They did not look around. They did not play with their clothes. Ned Stark's eyes watched her, latched onto her every word. And when the night was at its peak and the tales were done, the little wolves crept back to their beds to sleep with the lands of snow and ice lingering in their minds.

`.`

The prince turned five in an explosion of music and euphoria. The king spun his princess around in the ballroom, held his boy close to him, took his queen's hand and kissed it softly, smiled at the world showing off his never ending good fortunes.

"The Gods love me," he said as he kissed his perfect princess goodnight. "They do."

"The Old or the New?" asked his wife.

"Both, surely," he replied. "I have Celestina, I have Soren…they must all love me."

"I'm sure they do," she said, pressing her mouth to his cheek. "As I love you."

And he turned away, and she smiled at her little wolves. Ned Stark's eyes smiled back at her.


	5. Chapter 5

The princess excelled at debates and wordplay. She read through all of her days and most of the nights.

"She reads all the time," Joffrey said. "Just like her useless imp uncle."

"She learns a great deal from it, though," Sansa said. "She'd be miserable doing anything else."

And the king fell silent, because if there was anything that could make his stomach churn, it was the thought of his little princess being miserable.

He'd leave his council meetings to watch her singing lessons. He'd surrender a mandatory appearance to walk with her through the garden. He'd lose hours of sleep telling her stories of conquests and great deeds and lands of sunlight and gold.

She'd be careful to switch the covers of her books so he'd never know that it was the tales of colder lands that she read through the days. She'd stay awake at night listening to the dull breezes of the sunny city. They seemed to carry a promise within them, a task unfulfilled.

The great mother wolf carried this burden through the years. Every night—without fail—she crept into the chambers of her little children, and she told them the tales she had once been told in the quiet of the dark and the dark of the quiet while the world slept blissfully around them.

"_When the snows fall and the white winds blow_," she taught them carefully. "_The lone wolf dies—but the pack survives_."

`.`

"They are lions," said Cersei. "Lions wear red and gold."

And so the prince and princess wore fine red and cloth of gold and jewels and crowns. Their mother did, too, banishing a far and distant doubt that had died somewhere in the mind of the incestuous traitoress they called Cersei Lannister.

"Long ago, I was told a tale of a wolf in sheep's clothing," Sansa said to her children.

"Why sheep?" asked Soren.

"Because the sheep couldn't know they would soon be eaten," Celestina told him. "The sheep couldn't know the danger that awaited them."

"But we're dressing up as lions, not sheep."

"A wolf that lies in wait will be whatever it has to be," Sansa told them both. "If we must be wolves in lion's clothing, then so be it. Dress warmly. Winter is coming."

`.`

At thirteen, the princess' red flower bloomed. She heard talk from her mother and talk from her grandmother and talk from her maid, but she cared little for what it brought. Only the great mother wolf understood.

"Red, red everywhere," said Celestina. "It's all there ever is anymore. Just red. Don't you ever tire of red, Mama?"

"No one is more tired of red that I am."

"One day, Mama," promised Soren. "I'll take you back to the lands of white and snow. We'll burn all the red that we see, and then we'll burn the ashes of the red."

And Soren began to sleep with dreams of a great, red pyre in a cold, ashy north.

`.`

"I knew you'd learn one day," Cersei said to her son in the Sept. "You never love anything the way you love your first born child."

And Joffrey nodded in understanding, and they went on their way, unaware of the great mother wolf who lingered in the shadows, waiting and watching the comings and goings in the den of lions. She smiled to herself in this hell of a palace. Lions may have been kings, but they could not survive the winter.

`.`

The princess was engaged at fifteen. In all his life, the king had never cried harder. The windows were shut, the mirrors covered, the candles blown out. And Joffrey watched with tears in his eyes as his precious little cherub sailed away from the shores of Blackwater Bay. But the wolves behind him had no such tears in their eyes. There, in the undercurrent, was the steady approach of winter.


	6. Chapter 6

The prince was a soldier at heart. He fenced and punched and laughed and sang and charmed and broke hearts as he made his way to sixteen. But only those who looked hard enough could see the snow dripping from his hands, could hear the cold winds in his voice, could feel the warmth leaving them as he neared. Winter was in his soul, and when his mother looked upon him, she could see the snow dripping from his hands. She could hear the cold winds in his voice. She could feel the warmth leaving her as he neared. There, within him, was the steady approach of winter.

"You will be the hilt," Sansa whispered to him in the shadows of the halls where no lion might hear their treacherous words. "As your sister is the knife. You will be the Hilt of Winter. Your cut will be sharp, your grip will be firm, your blow will be absolute."

"But we are no longer a pack," said Soren.

Sansa was not stricken by melancholy to see that he now towered above her. He was tall, as Ned Stark had once been. He was strong, as Robb Stark had once been. He was fierce, as Arya Stark had once been. He was wise, as Jon Snow still was.

"Of course we are," said Sansa.

"But Celestina is gone to Braavos," Soren said. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

"But she is not alone, my wolf," Sansa whispered to him, holding him close. "There are those in the world who still carry the bitter whispers of winter within them, those who hold the direwolves of the North above all other loyalties. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. If a pack of wolves can survive in a den of lions, then how well do you think an army of wolves will fare?"

Sansa smiled and spoke and walked and breathed as though the world around her had become hers. The people smiled and spoke and walked and breathed as though she had become one of them at last. But they did not know that in the shadows of Braavos, a wolf lay in waiting.

Or rather two.

`.`

Arya Stark emerged from the shadows in a storm of blood and ferocious growls. The trail of red she left behind her was spattered across the Narrow Sea, leading straight to Braavos where her training had long ago begun. There, a little wolf silenced her screams of anger and retribution. The wolf was her—the Knife of Winter—with Ned Stark's eyes and Jon Snow's stare and the promise of bitter blizzards and snowstorms. She carried with her the words that had long since abandoned the wounded wolf Arya.

"_When snows fall and white winds blow_," she whispered to her aunt. "_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_."

And then the wolves were four.

`.`

The generals were baffled. The war room was silent. The soldiers of lions were dropping like flies, disappearing in clouds of black and smoky ash. The warmth of summer was slowly being sapped from King's Landing as the dead were brought in for burial. The king stood flabbergasted, and his mother confused, and his uncle-father speechless, and his grandfather outraged. But his queen sat still and silent. For she knew that the day was fast approaching. The sun and the warmth and the reign of summer was over. Winter was coming.

.`.

Winter finally came on the day Soren turned twenty, when the bells rang and the people rejoiced and the king held tournaments and feasts throughout the city. The messenger birds flew into the city with news of a kingdom in ashes, of a lion army destroyed, of a phantom legion that rode under a banner of gray. The words were shakily written, warning of the distant howls under the full moon and the growls in the night and the icy cold of the darker days that would surely come. The Inbred King waved these messages aside as he had all those before them. His grandfather, though old and frail, worried. His mother turned her eye on the great lady Sansa Stark, her gaze penetrating and unforgiving. But the golden haired mother of madness knew not that her gaze could not penetrate ice, just as the sun cannot fight the cold when the winter comes.

"I should have known this day would come," Cersei told Sansa as they shared wine by the garden. "I should have known that one day the wolves in winter would return to darken our doorstep."

"You should have known many things," Sansa told her as Soren approached silently from behind. "The least of which being that the wolves in winter never _left_ your doorstep."

The Hilt of Winter became everything she had dreamed he would be. His cut was sharp, his grip was firm, his blow was absolute. The mother of madness fell to the ground, eyes taking in her precious grandson before they went still and her body turned cold.

Winter had finally come.


	7. Chapter 7

Ramsay Bolton bent the knee on a cold, windy night by the embers of a dying pyre. His simple minded ward Reek took to following the wolves wherever they should go. It was many years before he told Soren or Celestina his name.

Arya Stark carved out her path of blood and destruction all the way to the Dreadfort and onward. Behind her was a phantom army of wolves long since forgotten, of cousins and brothers in name but not blood. The pack had grown into an army, an army of men that held the wolves of winter above all other loyalties. This army watched with still, bated breaths as the Knife of Winter carried out her last task.

It had been the slow knife, in the end. The knife that took it's time. The knife that waited and watched for years without forgetting, then slipped quietly between the bones. That had been the knife that had cut the deepest.

Celestina had been the knife. Her cut had been sharp, her grip had been firm, her blow had been absolute. The Inbred King watched heartbroken as his precious little cherub returned to him for the first time since he last saw her disappearing over the horizon so many years ago. But on that day, she returned a conqueror. The golden haired traitors watched in terror as the Knife and Hilt of Winter burned the banners of lions and stags to the ground, as the red of King's Landing was burned into ashes—and then as the ashes were oiled and set aflame. They rode out as victors, leaving behind the burning King's city. All the while, they heard the agonized screams of a father whose heart had been shattered by the Knife of Winter.

The snow fell in this new and strange land Soren and Celestina had never been to. The ice and the wind and juicy cold had been nothing but lore for so many years, but as they rode into the lands of frost and furs, they smiled. The Gods had brought them home. The nights were long and the days were short, and every full moon, the howls of distant friends and the growls of creatures of the night soothed them to sleep. The Hilt and Knife of Winter had never slept better.

The green grassy grounds were familiar to the long forgotten wolf sisters. The banners of wolves freshly made were waiting to be hung. A carriage stopped at the courtyard of stone, and the sisters Arya and Sansa held hands, the years of turmoil and grief behind them. And from the shadow lands beyond, Ned Stark and his Lady Catelyn stood watching as—for the first time in twenty years—the Starks returned to Winterfell.


End file.
